Poetry time.

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My hate is a frozen one.
It does not rot and fester
Nor does it broil or burn.
It's simply exists, deathly cold and forever shifting like a glacier of spite.

My sorrow is but a ghost.
It's is not boisterous or bold.
This sorrow of mine is gentle but biting
It's sings it's soul in mournful tones.

My love is lost in a sea of indifference.
This sea is so vast and all consuming it has devoured all passion and joy. And then had feasted upon the space in my soul in which all love and joy had once presided. This sea of nothing. A maw of unfeeling has bitten it's way into the very fabric of my being. And now only flashes of delight pierce the blackness like a light house in an oily abyss.

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